Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/155

Of feigning anything.' We grant it true,
And the same privilege crave and allow;
But to mix natures clearly opposite,
To make the serpent and the dove unite,
Or lambs from savage tigers seek defence,
Shocks reason, and the rules of common sense.
Some, who would have us think they meant to treat
At first on arguments of greatest weight,
Are proud, when here and there a glittering line
Does through the mass of their coarse rubbish shine.
In gay digressions they delight to rove.
Describing here a temple, there a grove,
A vale enamelled o'er with pleasant streams,
A painted rainbow, or the gliding Thames.
But how does this relate to their design?
Though good elsewhere, 'tis here but foisted in.
A common dauber may perhaps have skill
To paint a tavern sign, or landscape well;
But what is this to drawing of a fight,
A wreck, a storm, or the last judgment right?
When the fair model and foundation shews,
That you some great Escurial would produce,
How comes it dwindled to a cottage thus?
In fine, whatever work you mean to frame,
Be uniform, and everywhere the same.
Most poets, sir, ('tis easy to observe)
Into the worst of faults are apt to swerve;
Through a false hope of reaching excellence,
Avoiding length, we often cramp our sense,
And make 't obscure; oft, when we'd have our style
Easy and flowing, lose its force the while;
Some, striving to surmount the common flight,
Soar up in airy bombast out of sight;
Others, who fear to a bold pitch to trust
Themselves, flag low, and humbly sweep the dust;
And many fond of seeming marvellous,
While they too carelessly transgress the laws